Gregor the Overlander The Invasion of the Cutters
by fuelforthefunnyfarm
Summary: Gregor is all grown up and a police officer in New York. His life is a little exciting, but predictable and overall, peaceful. He rather enjoys it, but it's probably not going to last long. The tunnel to the under land, though collapsed, is still there and just waiting to be re-opened, whether Gregor is ready or not. Rated T it is underland fanfic, after all. Review?
1. introduction

please please please please please please please review! I just want to know if I'm anygood or not. reviewers will be treasured; constructive criticism shall be venerated! Flames will be put in a fire-proof box and stored under the bed with all my old drawings that I just can't bear to throw away!

(Disclaimer. Disclaimed. But ask if you want to use any of my oc's please)

It had been fifteen long years since Gregor had left the Underworld for the last time. He had missed it bitterly at first, undergoing random bouts of depression and anger. He had even run away once. But he was over it. Some things still lingered with him; he hadn't dated any girl since Luxa, for example, but he had healed.

He had needed to heal, not just for his own sake. His family had needed fed, after all, and while his father had recovered enough to teach, he was never again as healthy as before the 'accident', as Gregor's mother referred to it. He had not been able to secure a high-paying job. Gregor's mother had found work at a grocer's. She made enough to pay the rent and electric bill, but no more. So at the age of fifteen, Gregor had gotten his first steady job. He had worked at Dunkin' Donuts for two years, until his grandmother died whereupon he'd been fired for some rather stupid mistakes he'd made while distracted, then as an assistant at Barnes and Noble for a further two.

Somehow, they'd made it. Now mother was manager of the grocery store and making enough to pay the expenses of the whole family, as long as they did nothing too extravagant. Lizzy was going to an expensive college in Connecticut on a full scholarship. She would be graduating in two months, to take a previously arranged post in some bank. Margaret, or 'Boots' as she had been formerly called, was doing very well in school. She was failing math of course, her talents had never lain in that direction, but she was hardly failing history, and who could fail science with their father as a personal tutor? Her literature and foreign language grades, on the other hand, were completely off the charts. She was only thirteen, and already she spoke seven languages fluently. The school had had to get special tutorial programs to to teach her online. Her teachers were astounded, particularly since she was currently failing her English class spectacularly. (She claimed it was boring.)

Gregor himself had become a police officer. There hadn't been many other options, what with his fairly terrible grades and lack of good people skills. The academy hadn't asked a lot of questions about his scars either, so theyd been a decent match. His instructors had commended his grasp of hand to hand combat. Lizzie had laughed when she heard that.

He worked in the North Brooklyn Borough, dealing mostly with homicides and shoot ups. His mother worried, of course, but she had decided about four years previously to allow Gregor to do what he wanted without too much fussing. Still, as she told him, "worrying's my job." And she came to check on him about once a week. Gregor appreciated it. It was nice to know she loved him, even if she was a bit of a mother hen. Besides, he was probably a major cause of her white hairs and he owed her some for that.

He liked being a cop. Not dealing with the homicides and shootings and thefts of course, but the camaraderie, the satisfaction of a job well done, and the somewhat idealistic belief that he was, in his own way, making the world a better place than it had been yesterday were good feelings, ones he wished to experience more of. He wanted to be a good cop, for he remembered how the police had acted when they'd been investigating his father's disappearance. He didn't want anyone else to have to go through that.

One day, he knew, he might do what his mother was always pushing him to do, get a wife, settle down, raise a family. It sounded rather nice. But something always stopped him. Instead, he donated as much money as he could spare to charities. Remembering his own upbringing, he helped families in the poorer neighborhoods as much as he could, usually only amounting to some donated groceries and helping out at the local food pantry, but sometimes larger things. Watching children while their parents were called away on emergencies. Finding missing children. Once, he had pulled a drowning boy out of a pool.

He had no plans for the future. He would not have been unhappy to die like that, with family and friends who cared for him. He had seen may worse ways to die, after all.


	2. new schedule

I'm having trouble uploading documents and I would like some help if anyone can give it? thanks.

Disclaimer. Disclaimed. But since it is my writing and character stylization, some reviews will be appreciated. Reviewers will recieve virtual sugar cookies. How about cake? everyone likes cake, right? I'm told I do a mean virtual upside down pinapple cake.

Gregor sighed as he looked at the schedule for this month; June. Why did the higher-ups always assign him 'the park'? Not that he should complain. It was a fairly easy beat. But it brought back memories that he liked to avoid. Maybe he could ask them to change it? No, it wouldn't work and he'd have to give a reason. Besides, somebody might start to wonder why he didn't _e__ver_ want it and Gregor didn't like to have to make up stories. He'd just have to take it and hope for a slightly different beat next time.

He was also doing refresher training with the second year men, he noted. Assistant tirainer. _Well, that's always fun. Maybe Sergeant Franck will let me use my own routine this time? It is more efficient than the normal routine. They use it in-in that other place, after all, where people fight for their lives every day and still manage to stay alive. Ripred uses it, taught me some of it, and I have modified the basic moves for batons instead of swords. _It hadnt been difficult, once he remembered that he didnt have to twist his weapon so that he was parrying with the flat and striking with the edge anymore.

But Sergeant Franck did not approve of Gregor's unconventional methods. He allowed him to teach the more advanced trainees, because, after all, there was nobody better with a baton than Gregor, but he believed that the normal routine would suffice for the less skilled. It had worked for years after all, been improved and precedented by decades of traning. How could Gregor, a talented young man, yes, but still just a kid off of the street, hope to better it?

_Of course, my routine's been used and improved by the best fighters of that other place for far longer than the NYPD has existed, but it's not like I can tell him that, can I? What would I say? "Look, Sarge, I know that this routine sounds revolutionary, but really, it's proven and tested. No, not by me, by a forgotten race of people who live in huge caverns under New York. Yes. They were brought there years ago by a man named Sandwich, kind of a nutjob really, and they've been living there, undetected, since. No, I havent been smoking or sniffing anything odd recently. No, you can't see them, the tunnel I use to get down there kind of collapsed ten years ago. _Gregor chuckled slightly at his mental image of Sergeant Franck's incredulous face. _And then he could take me off of active duty until I 'feel better.' Visit a few psychiatrists._

Gregor snorted. That might not be fun- he'd barely made it through the psychological exam required to get the job. He wondered how he might fare with the psycho-analyst already firmly convinced of his instability. Probably not very well. That was one thing that he hated about this job. He didn't object to the fact that they didn't want crazy people on the force . He had met the Bane, after all. What he objected to was the fact that he was considered a crazy person. It was annoying, trying to guess the correct answers to their questions without the shrinks figuring out what he was doing.

Well, he didn't have to worry about work right now. It was finally Saturday, he hadn't pulled overtime, and his fencing club was holding its bi-monthly meeting. Time to relax and get out of the apartment.

He lifted his sword from its rack. It was beautiful.

The sword was not made in the style of most newer swords, but in an older style, the same style as Sandwich's sword had been. He had snapped that one of course, claiming, and fully believing, that he would never lift a sword again. But he had soon found that swordplay calmed him, serving as a release for anger and frustration. So he had spent his first year's savings on a custom-made sword.

He hadn't named it. It was a tool, a chunk of metal, a focus, something to be used to control his inner rager, not a memento or a had seen what that could lead to. If a weapon meant something important to you, fighting would become important to you as well. Gregor would never again allow fighting to become important to him in that way. Instead, he used this weapon to conquer himself.

Still, Gregor liked his sword. It was pretty and he had worked hard for it. So he smiled, testing the weight and balance, before placing it carefully in its leather case and slinging it across his back. Then he left, locking the door behind him securely. Time to have some fun.

Thanks for reading. Thanks even more for reviewing. After this, updates are going to come a lot slower. I did not prewrite this story, so figure three days to write a chapter and one day to upload it. (The cut-and-paste thing doesn't work without an external keyboard, so I, a very slow typer naturally, have a lot of work to do. This took me two hours. Though it only took me half an hour to write it on my word processor. . The fanfiction document thing really stinks.) Repay me for my hard work. Review!


	3. My OC, Officer Harding,

Two weeks later:

Notes: I changed the timeline of the story. It is now fifteen years after the events in the last book. Thanks to Der King for pointing out the mistakes with that timeline. If you're wondering why Gregor was promoted to sergeant after barely passing the psychological tests(which I did make up. You would be surprised how few resources there are on the NYPD academy that don't mostly consist of complaints and I am much too lazy to do more research than I already have), he was exemplary enough in other things to make up for it. Gregor never has a last name, so in this story, I dubbed him Collins.

Officer Harding's Point Of View.

It was about noon in Central Park and much too cloudy for mid-June. It was also hot and muggy. The sarge had caught Harding snoring along the side of the road and had threatened to report him, so Harding was now taking a short walk through the park to wake himself up a bit. It wasn't really part of his beat, but the air conditioning in his car wasn't working. And without air-conditioning and a cup of coffee, he couldn't stay awake in there. Even that stickler, Sergeant Collins, would allow him this.

Sergeant Collins. There was an irritation. He wasn't bad off duty or training, in fact, he could be downright chummy. But on duty, augh. What a dutiful perfectionist.* He wouldn't let a guy take a five minute break if his life depended on it. Not that Harding would say that to his face. Everyone had seen the sarge with a gun. Or a baton, for that matter. Well, it was about time to get back to the car. He should get there before sarge noticed he was missing.

Harding turned and strolled in a leisurely fashion, sidestepping a pile of wrestling eight year old boys with pursed lips. Wasn't it too hot for this? Didn't these kids have parents?

One younger boy stumbled backwards into him. He glanced up and blinked. The other children froze. "Sorry, Mister. Didn't see you there."

"It's okay. Watch where you're going though. This is a park, not a playground. Go play something that doesn't involve running or fighting."

"Sir Yes Sir!" They laughed and _ran_ off, shoving each other. Harding sighed as he gazed after them. They were intentionally ignoring him. Well, he didn't have the energy to deal with it. It was too hot.

One of the boys half-scrambled, half-climbed to the top of a rock and proclaimed himself 'King.' The others chased after him, vying for kingship. Harding frowned. Was it his imagination or. . ? That rock was definitely moving.

"Hey kids! Get off of there!" He headed towards them at a jog, wondering why the rock was wobbling. Those kids didn't weigh that much, surely?

They had noticed it too. The kids on the rock climbed off and they all backed away, staring at it. It was still moving, rocking back and forth. Dirt shifted under it. Something was coming up.

Harding was equipped with a whistle, a shiny tin one with a black string hanging around his neck. He dropped one hand to it and the other to his gun. Something told him he might need both in the near future. He wished he had some extra bullets. Pre-loaded in his two extra clips. But that was all in his car.

The earth shuddered again. Harding popped the security latch on his holster and raised his whistle to his lips, but didn't blow it. He stared at the moving ground, now definitely on one side of the boulder.

It exploded. Harding drew his 9mm faster than he would have believed possible but hesitated to shoot. He could simply not be seeing what he thought he saw. A giant ant was half out of the new hole in the ground, now it was the whole way out. Now it paused, looking as confused as an ant could look. Then it lunged towards the smallest boy. Harding didn't have time to think. He fired three times, blowing it sideways, and giving the boy enough time to run. They all ran, fast as they could. Harding stood frozen, staring at the ant. Which was getting back up. And another ant was climbing out of the hole.

And then he ran out of air. Harding had been blowing the whistle nonstop since the ant lunged. He dropped the whistle, heaving in air, and realized that running was useless. Those ants were faster than him by a long shot. But his handgun was not going to work. He was dead.

This thought process all took place inside of two seconds. Harding was a dead man walking. He had a useless weapon. He had no resources. He couldn't run. _Well_, he thought, remarkably clearly, _If I've gotta die, I'm gonna go out in style_. He had a very large clip. It held thirty rounds. And if he had to use all of them, he would.

And then a giant rat came out of the hole and Harding squealed like a little girl.

*actually, those weren't the words he thought, but this is still rated K+. Think. What would Wolverine(X-men) say?

So what do you think? Review, review, review! I'll read them all! Reviewers get a virtual twenty dollar bill! I managed to upload this!


	4. Another filler chapter

_**Hi, It's me again. **_

_**Disclaimer: If I were Suzanne Collins, the third Hunger Games book would not involve Katniss' acting like a spoiled brat. I like character development!**_

_**Thanks to FanMan223, Der King, The Irish Lass, awesome, and CrazyJ888 for reviewing! Please continue!**_

**Gregor**

Gregor was giving a parking ticket to a blue minivan in a handicapped zone when he heard gunshots. Almost simultaneously, a whistle began to shrill. Go. His feet engaged before his brain had time to respond. Behind him, the ticket fluttered to the ground.

Officer Harding was the only man who constantly forgot to bring his radio. That was why he was equipped with a whistle. But Harding was a lazy officer, never responding unless he had to. But Harding was the only man who would use a whistle instead of a radio. Unless whoever it was couldn't reach or for some other reason access his radio. Which meant that he was trapped.

A girl screamed and Gregor ran even faster. This didn't sound like a mugging. This sounded bad. Bad. In _Central Park_. Gregor had a sudden sense of foreboding.

**Officer Harding**

Harding stared at the huge gray rat, blinking and shaking its head. Probably blinded by the sudden light. He raised his gun, shakily, and the rat twisted. Its powerful tail ripped around and smacked Harding's 9 mm out of his hands. At the same time, it lunged for the ant Harding had shot. In seconds, it had literally ripped both ants apart. But more were coming out of the hole.

They were pouring out now, the hole widening with every ant. There were nearly twenty out now! Two leapt for Harding. The rat pounced on one, smashing it, trampling its head, and knocked the other one back with its tail.

"Use that stupid club you're carrying, overlander! Or so help me, I will use you as ammunition!" It roared, spinning to take out another ant.

"You. Talk?!" Harding squeaked, thoroughly shocked.

The rat ignored him. Well, it was a bit busy, tearing apart ants left and right as Harding stood frozen, staring. Ugh. It actually bit that one in half. One managed to get in under the rat's guard and grab its leg in its pinchers.

"I wasn't kidding about that ammunition, overlander!" The rat screamed, shaking off the ant. The ant flew five feet, landing near Harding. Shakily, it climbed to its feet and stumbled towards him. He slammed his baton onto its neck(?), and started beating on the other thin part of its body. The node, if he remembered his grade school biology class correctly.

The ant started thrashing around in its death throes. Harding, blood thoroughly roused, leapt for the next one, roaring. He'd never known he had this in him!

**Gregor**

After what seemed an eternity of running, but was probably only a very short time, Gregor found the site of the whistle blower. He froze at the scene in front of him.

A huge gray gnawer, who looked a lot like Ripred, but younger and with fewer scars, was standing back to back with officer Harding. Both were ripping, tearing, slashing, and beating everything they could reach. Harding looked like he was actually enjoying himself. He was no rager, his strikes lacked style or form and quite a few were missing their targets, but he was dangerous nonetheless. The gnawer, on the other hand, was a skilled warrior, instantly analyzing and removing threats. He had some excess movement, but he was no average fighter.

About twenty dead cutters lay around the two, twitching and thrashing in death. More poured steadily out of a hole in the ground, a bit like a bad movie. And four other officers who had responded to the whistle were standing around, staring.

"Well, what are you guys doing? Help!" Gregor bellowed, hefting his baton and unscrewing the moving weight mounted inside it. (The weight threaded into the tip normally,giving the baton a bit of a heavier swing, but nothing noticeable during inspection. When needed, however, it could be unscrewed, so that it slid back into the handle and slammed right back into the tip when swung. This gave it some three times as much force. Technically, Gregor was not allowed to carry it, but, well.) He didn't stop to see whether his officers obeyed, but immediately charged into the fray.

**Line break**.

_**So, what do you think? Does it stink, is it good? New rule, I only update after receiving at least two reviews from two separate people. They can be flames, encouragement or constructive criticism, but I have decided that an emoticon or less than a single sentence does not qualify as a review. Thank you and good day.**_


	5. Gregor has a girlfriend?

_**Disclaimer. If I were the nationally acclaimed Suzanne Collins, would I be on my hands and knees literally begging for feedback?!**_

_**Author's note: Review! Now! I spend an hour and a half on this daily. You could PLEASE spend ten seconds! Okay, forty seconds. Sue me. THEN REVIEW!**_

_**Thanks to CrazyJ888 for reviewing. (unlike the rest of you. Bah!)**_

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It was complete and utter mayhem. Gregor smashed, cutters died. Fluid, some of it his own red blood, some of it the blue blood of the cutters, splashed everywhere. His legs were bleeding in multiple places, sweat glued his shirt to his body. Gore coated his boots. He wished he had his sword. And the ants kept right on coming.

He was in rager mode now, all concentration firmly on the fight. There were allies now, more gnawers. In a vague way, he realized that he shouldn't hit them.

The part of Gregor that wasn't thinking in terms of allies/enemies wondered why only the gnawers were here. Where were the humans(he had aways found it difficult to think of them as the killers), the fliers, the nibblers? And what were _cutters _of all things doing in New York? They weren't overly interested in the overland, he'd thought. They had almost the entirety of the uncharted lands, for starters. Why were they here?

One of his allies, the brown rat on his left, stumbled, and the rager took back over.

After what seemed like a very long time, but was probably only twenty minutes or so, the cutters stopped coming. The fighters were surrounded by a pile of dead and dying bodies, though only cutters composed it. Amazingly, no policemen nor gnawers had died. Only one man, Officer Pfeiffer, had gone down, clutching at a broken and lacerated leg. The others were wounded, cut up, ripped and exhausted, but still standing.

The gnawers looked around then, one by one, dived back into the tunnel. Gregor was too exhausted to stop them. Instead, he turned and began to help Officer Pfeiffer. Nobody spoke for a long while.

But finally, Harding broke the silence. "What just happened? Because I would swear and all evidence," he gestured around at the dead bodies of the cutters. "confirms that I just fought with some giant talking rats against some whopper-sized ants. And Sergeant Collins fought like a berserker."

"We did fight giant ants while allied with giant talking rats." Gregor said distantly. "And I am a berserker." He patted his temporary bandage, made of shirt and jacket, carefully, then hauled Pfeiffer to his feet. "And I have no idea what we're supposed to do with the bodies."

"That soon won't be a problem." Came an oddly accented voice from behind Gregor. He spun. A man stood there, garbed in the spinner-made clothes of the underland and wearing a hugely wide-brimmed hat, sunglasses, and gloves. "The gnawers, the rats, you might call them, sent me. They thought that you might listen to a human. In about an hour, more cutters-ants-will come. If you stop them not, they will destroy your city. We, the underlanders, humans, nibblers, gnawers, and fliers, reinforcements will send as soon as we may. Until then, you may want to assemble your own forces. There are thousands, millions of cutters, and they will kill everything in their paths unless they are stopped." He turned to go back into the tunnel.

"Hazard. What is going on?" Gregor demanded.

The man froze, turning slowly. "Gregor?"

"Let's go with 'duh' shall we? Now. What. Is. Going. On. Here?"

"The cutters are invading. We chased them out of Regalia, but we are hard pressed. The nibblers and the crawlers have banded together to oppose them, the spinners treat with them, the gnawers and the humans have barricaded themselves inside the city and occasionally send out patrols, usually with fliers so that the cutters cannot reach them. There is little strength left to oppose them. So they have ignored us for the present time and are now focusing their efforts upon re-digging the old tunnels into the overland."

"What do they want?"

"To be the sole power upon earth again, as they were so many years ago, they wish."

Gregor stared. "Do they know how many humans there are?! What weapons we have?"

"Do you know how fast a single queen can reproduce, given sufficient food? They will just make more. They want cropland."

"There's not a lot of that in New York."

"But if they take out the population centers, there will be fewer overlanders to oppose them."

"Will the Regalians ally with the overlanders?"

Hazard sighed. "If we do not, we do not survive. Queen Luxa has made it clear that we will fight with them, though it means revealing ourselves for the first time in centuries. I must report back. Fly you high, Gregor the Overlander." He started to climb back into the tunnel once more.

"Wait! How is Luxa? Is she okay?"

"Luxa is fine. She has put the council firmly in its place and rules with Ripred at her side in place of a king. He is. . .surprisingly diplomatic. But she has not married, as that is what you truly ask." He smiled as Gregor turned bright red. "And now, I truly must report back. We may reminisce at some other time." And he finally dropped back into the hole.

After the man left,Harding could think of only one thing to say. "Sergeant Gregor Collins. The untouchable bachelor. Has a girlfriend?"

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_**Author's notes. Fine. I like updating. This is much more for my satisfaction than yours. But if nobody reviews, this will eventually become what I like to call a 'lost story.' Meaning I won't end it. Ever. I'll let it rot. It will be one of those half-completed ten year old stories that litter the floors of fanfiction's halls. Mwah ha ha ha. (And please, don't ask about my sanity. I'm a sixteen year old girl who had to ask her mother what mascara was a few months back. I like to play with legos. I once trained a heifer to carry me around. Of course I'm insane. Don't insult me by implying otherwise.) But even though you don't need to, please please, please, pretty please review! It shall not kill you, I swear! Traffic stats say people do read this!**_


	6. My Favorite Character!

Disclaimer: not mine. Never has been, probably never will be. I'm told that anything's possible, so I shall hold onto my hopes, but this is extremely unlikely. Review?

The chief of police stared at the dead bodies of the cutters. He looked stunned.

It had taken quite a bit of convincing to get him out here, to this secluded part of Central Park where few went. A few threats that they would lose their jobs if this was a hoax, a few that he would have them arrested if this was a hoax, and a fair amount of swearing had only made the cops more determined. How, they had demanded, had Officer Pfeiffer broken and gashed his leg so badly if they were lying? How had they gotten so cut up?

He still barely believed his eyes. And they hadn't even told him about the giant, talking rats yet.

Of course, all the men who had been with Gregor were either in first aid or giving him the 'you're on your own, buddy' look, complete with a dash of curiosity and 'you tell him. You seem to know much more about it than we do.'

So Gregor took a deep breath. "Commander, I believe there is something I need to tell you."

"What?" He still looked slightly dazed. He hadn't been prepared at all for this. In fact, he hadn't been chief of police long. Only three months. He was rather out of his depth.

"Sir, the cutters, the giant ants, aren't the only creatures who live beneath New York. There are - others there as well. Rats, called gnawers; cockroaches, called crawlers; mice, called nibblers; moles, diggers; serpents, slitherers; spiders, spinners; scorpions, stingers; bats, fliers and humans." He paused. "Also called killers. There are a few other species as well, but those are the main ones. All, excepting the slitherers and sometimes, depending upon whom you ask, the cutters, are sapient. And all but the cutters, slitherers, and spinners, are on our side."

"I think you need to lie down, Sergeant Collins, it's been a long day and-"

"I'm not hallucinating, sir." Gregor pulled off his shirt, clearly revealing his scars, including the five slashed across his chest. He pointed at these. "I wasn't playing with any ordinary rat when I got these, Commander. No, hear me out. You need to know this now. If I'm delusional, no harm done. If I'm not delusional and you don't listen, a lot of people will die. Would you have believed _this_ if you hadn't seen it?" He waited. The commander shook his head mutely. So Gregor, taking this as permission to carry on, told his story.

He left out the personal bits, most of his feelings, his relationship to Queen Luxa, his friendship with most of the royal family, giving only the basic facts and names and timeline. Nevertheless, the commander began to look as though he might believe Gregor. When he had finished with his tale, Gregor pulled on his shirt and stood quietly, awaiting the final verdict.

The commander seemed to stand there a long time. Then he turned to Harding. "Officer, do you have any evidence for or against this tale?"

"Yes, officer. Sir. Commander." Harding stumbled over his tongue. "There was a giant rat, commander, during the attack, quite a few of them. Maybe ten or fifteen-hard to say. One, well, I thought I was crazy when I heard it speak, I really did. He called me overlander. Told me to help him fight the ants or he'd use me as ammunition. Quite rude, really. Odd accent. No manners. But then, I suppose he was fighting for his life."

"Not really." It was a lazy voice from behind. From the hole. Slowly, almost in sync, everyone turned to look at the gray, scarred, and whiskery face coming up out of the hole. "If he'd been fighting for his life, I might have to teach him how to fight. Again. Now, I've got a rather large army behind me. You can either grant us permission to come up and we come up, or we come up anyway. Your choice. And I don't think you want to be fighting both us and the cutters at the same time, so please make the right decision."

"Hello, Ripred."

"Ah, my favorite little rager. Not grown much, I see." Ripred surveyed Gregor's full height of five foot seven inches. "If you don't have cookies, I don't want to talk to you. Now, about that permission?" He cocked his head slightly at the commander, who had gone white, but nodded convulsively. " Good. Gregor, you might want to hide."

"Why?"

Ripred dragged himself out of the tunnel. "If you're this clueless, you deserve what's coming to you."

So. How is it? Wonderful? Horrible? Nice cliffhanger? Please review! P-L-E-A-S-E? You wouldn't want to see such a constant up-dater cry, would you?


	7. I've always wanted some of these

_**Hiya! It's me, the annoying nag. Review? Review? Review? Review? Review? Review? Review? Review? Review? Review? Review? Review? Review? Review? Review? Review? Review? Review? Review? Review? Review? Review? Review?**_

_**Now that I've doubled my word count- Disclaimer: If I were Suzanne Collins, I'd be a better writer. But there wouldn't necessarily be more reviews.**_

The army poured out of the hole, gnawers, often carrying miserable-looking fliers on their backs, nibblers, humans, and surprisingly, a few diggers. Finally, last of all came Luxa. She walked behind with Aurora, who was carried by a rather large brown rat and looked almost seasick.

Luxa looked around, spotted Gregor, and glowered. He thought about running. He wished he'd taken Ripred's advice and hid. She looked like she wanted to kill him.

But apparently, she was too well-mannered to do that now. She turned her gaze to the chief of police, smiled sweetly, and left Gregor to wonder what, exactly, he had done. It wasn't his fault he'd been locked in the overland.

A silver bat caught his eye and grinned as well as a bat could. At least Nike was happy to see him.

Ripred, apparently bored with the talk between Luxa and Commander Johnson, skulked over. "Luxa, as you may have guessed, is not happy with you, Gregor boy. Can't say I didn't warn you."

"Why is she so angry?"

"Hmm." The rat ticked off on his fingers. "You never write, you never tried to contact her, she doesn't know what you've been doing romantically over the past fifteen years, and I constantly tease her about you. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, pup."

"Did you find that out the hard way?" Gregor couldn't resist asking.

"Insolent pup. Where's your sister? Not the little one."

"College-Yale. She's graduating this year."

Ripred snorted, but said nothing. Gregor decided to keep the fact that Lizzy was dating a boy named Derek all to himself for now. Lizzy would be angry if her boyfriend limped away, whimpering and muttering about giant rats, and from past experience, he was pretty sure she wouldn't blame Ripred.

Sadly, the thought seemed to have occurred to Ripred that she was 'that age.' "Does she have a boyfriend?"

"Yes, and no, you are not allowed to kill him."

Ripred tried to look confused, but failed. "Me? Kill a boy who's dating little Lizzy? Never."

"No. You'd give him a little 'father/son' talk that would end with him in the psychiatric ward of the local hospital. And Lizzy would get angry."

"Not with me, though." Ripred pointed out smugly.

Gregor sighed. "No, but she'll kill me."

"And the downside is?"

Behind Gregor, Harding snorted. Gregor turned to glare at him. "What?"

"You know what."

Ripred glowered and bared his teeth at him. Harding didn't flinch. "You know, I bet if you attacked me, the diplomacy might come to a bit of a standstill. And there would be paperwork." Ripred glowered some more and pointedly turned his back. Gregor laughed out loud.

"So how have you been, Peacemaker? I hear you're a diplomat now."

"I've always been a diplomat. Just with different tools. Soldiers are peacemakers, just in our own unique fashion. So quit laughing. As for how I've been. . ." He smirked like a rat that'd been at the cream* "Well, you just might have to ask Lapblood about that."

"What?" Gregor asked, confused.

"Or our pups."

"Pups?" Gregor's voice went up about an octave.

Ripred smirked again. "You're pretty thick, Warrior. Or are you just that frightened by the idea of lots of little Ripreds?"

*Gregor had substituted rat for cat in this expression since he'd first seen Ripred pull his face out of a bowl of shrimp and cream sauce.

_**It seemed right to end this little chapter here. Adieu, and special thanks to all who REVIEW? I'm going to start calling it the lost art of reviewing.**_


	8. the fight

Hi, y'all. I'm back. Chapter eight is ready to roll. I included more detail and a much longer chapter this time. The plot should develop faster than before(but not that much faster, I like my stories {no, this is certainly not the first story I've written, just the first fanfic and the first published} to take some time and give a nice, firm background.) Please review?:(

Disclaimer: okay. This is starting to feel really stupid. I OWN NOTHING, PEOPLE! (Except Officer Harding, Special Aide Donald Hertz, Chief of police Frank Johnson and the Coalition to Get Ripred to be Polite. And a bruised toe.)

Special thanks to:

Sal1: who is the first to actually offer to help me with my(previously resolved) document troubles. Thank you very much.

Guest: who requested crawlers and spinners. I'm planning on the crawlers, but they didn't seem to have much opportunity yet. They should show up later. I'm not sure about the spinners though. I might insert a few of them, but I've never liked them much. Cannibalism really gets on my nerves.

Kittykatz101: who offered encouragement and asked for larger chapters.

Fanman2234: who informed me that 'we're all crazy here.' And offered encouragement.

And finally CrazyJ888, who hasn't reviewed the last chapter yet, but has been very encouraging throughout. Thank you all very much.

(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((( Finally, the two leaders had stopped talking. They shook hands and turned, one to give the order to draw up the troops and one to make some serious phone calls, gesturing at Officer Hertz, his personal aide, to arrange the officers. Hertz had once been an officer in the north Brooklyn borough and knew what a street fight was all about.

"Sergeant Gregor!"

"Yessir?"

"Would a bullet kill one of these monstrosities?" He gestured at the pile of dead cutters. "Or would batons be more effective?"

"Batons, sir. Bullets won't do anything but go right through. They might kill the cutter eventually, but it would survive long enough to wreak some serious havoc. They are very resilient."

"Weak spots?"

"Crush the head and they go crazy for about two or three minutes before falling over dead. Legs are good too. Or the thin spots between head and middle or middle and back."

"Neck and petiole node."

Gregor glared at Ripred, who shrugged. "Some people read books, boy. You might try it."

Gregor decided to ignore him and turned back to Hertz. "And if you manage to crush their rather heavily-armored midsections-"

"Mesosoma. Or thorax." Gregor glowered.

"Then they lose control of their legs-"

"And the rest of their bodies. Most of the major nerve clusters are located there."

"But don't go for the pinchers-"

"Mandibles."

"Because they will grab your weapon and send you flying. They can lift a lot with their necks."

"About a hundred and fifty times their weight, actually, providing it's centered right."

Hertz stared at Ripred. "I was trying to get a report, rat."

"And I was giving it detail, killer."

"Killer?"

"You use your name for my species, I use our name for your species. The connotations are equally insulting. Shouldn't you be assembling your *mighty forces*?" He asked with great sarcasm.

Hertz looked around at his men and actually blushed. Well, there were only about twenty of them and most were staring at the fliers and the gnawers, looking thoroughly dazed. He screamed orders and instructions, especially to the more dazed looking officers, sending these to clear the park and shocking them into obedience with his particular brand of cursing. "Sergeant Collins, you stay with me as cultural attache." He finished, then turned back to Ripred. "Watch your tongue."

"If you want to join the 'Coalition to Get Ripred to be Polite,' there's a badge. But they've never managed to do anything. 'The Peacemaker' is much too valuable for any threats to be worth the paper they're printed on." Ripred retorted and swaggered off to irritate someone else.

Hertz stared after him. "Peacemaker?"

Gregor shrugged and pointed at a nibbler scrambling out of the tunnel. Ripred was already beside her. "Report." His order was audible throughout the gathering.

"Cutters. Five minutes back."

"How many?"

"I don't know. Too many to get an accurate estimate. Thousands?"

Ripred swore. "Go get some water. Then find the warrior a proper sword and join us."

The nibbler nodded shakily and trotted off. Hertz looked at Gregor. "Who is this 'warrior?'"

Gregor ducked his head. "I am."

Hertz gave him a calculating glance. "Then you're important to them?"

"Mostly as a fighter." Gregor lied through his teeth, then added some truth. "I'm quite good with a sword."

"You'd have to be." Hertz knew he was lying and was quite gently letting him know it. He had little time to be harsh. "The rat said five minutes?"

"Nibbler. She's the underworld equivalent of a mouse. Yes. She did."

Gregor spotted the object of their conversation approaching now, bearing a cloth-wrapped bundle and heavy belt. She was moving rather fast, probably in a hurry to get back to her place in the battle line.

"Your sword, warrior." She handed it to him, bowing slightly, then nearly sprinted back the way she'd come. Almost as soon as she'd disappeared, the hole erupted in a tidal wave of black cutters.

"Ho-ly mother of mercy." Hertz crossed himself and lifted his heavy wooden baton slightly in preparation for battle. Gregor finished buckling his belt and drew the steel sword from its scabbard. The gnawers, unbonded humans, and the nibblers tensed. Human and flier bonds took flight. Ripred, positioned right in the center of the front battle line, whipped his tail back and forth. And the cutters charged.

Gregor, at the front and towards the center, was instantly swamped. He killed and killed and killed again, spinning and hacking and slashing. He had forgot none of his old swordplay, none of his rager skills. There was no thought, only action.

ΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔΔ

Hertz stared at the young sergeant in amazement and some slight fear. The man was actually grinning as he tore the giant ants apart- looking gleeful and slightly mad. He swore that when this was over, he would find the shrink who had tested Collins' mental fitness and, depending on his record, either dock his pay or have him fired. There was no way that that boy should have gotten past any tests. In the meantime, two ants were advancing from his left. He turned his attention away from the sergeant and back to his own battle.

During another lull in the fight, Hertz saw Ripred, no mistaking that rat. He was bloody-mouthed and snarling as he bit ants in half or tore through them with his claws. His tail whipped around, smashing and slamming ants to the ground, but miraculously hitting none of his own side. They all gave him a wide berth, nonetheless.

But what Officer Donald Hertz found truly amazing was the bats and their human riders, swooping and ducking and diving and carrying out impossible maneuvers. He had through that the bats looked rather pitiful when they were removed from the tunnels, but they were now, quite obviously, warriors of the highest degree. He wondered if they were sapient as well. If they were, he was going to beg a ride off of one when this was done. He'd always wanted to fly.

*You might never get a chance if you keep this up!* his brain screamed at him, and Hertz threw himself to one side as more ants closed the gap in their line.

ππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππππ

There was a throbbing roar overhead and chief of police Frank Johnson sighed in relief. The national guard was finally here.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

It took a further three hours for that wave of cutters to be taken down, with swords and guns and batons, and, of course, teeth and claws; more to find and pile the bodies so that no living cutters escaped, and longer than that to find and retrieve their own dead. There were not many wounded. Cutters tended to attack randomly until they wounded someone, and then they would swarm upon the wounded one, smelling his blood and weakness. Death usually resulted.

Still, there were some alive and kicking, but in need of urgent medical care. Ripred was not among them. He enjoyed informing Gregor, who had broken three ribs and gashed his left leg, of this fact.

"Yes, yes, I know. You start to crack at roughly four hundred to one, whereas I crack at three to one. I remember. Now, as you pointed out, my side hurts and my leg hurts and I was given painkillers, so I don't have the attention span for your verbal abuse." Gregor finally told him.

A nurse came up behind them, looking terrified of Ripred, but determined. "Sir, I am going to have to ask you to leave the patient alone. He is tired and needs to sleep." Ripred turned to face her and she shrieked. "None of that filth near my beds! If you must visit with the patient, go clean yourself off! Go, shoo! You're covered in dried blood and gore and heaven knows what else and you dare go near my patients! Shoo, shoo!" She seemed to have gotten over her fear, almost shoving a surprised-looking Ripred from the room. Gregor laughed weakly. He'd never seen anyone chase Ripred out of a room before.

:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+:+

So, how did I do? Feedback is very, extremely, thoroughly appreciated, in case you didn't read my author's notes.


	9. a semi-filler chapter posted at 10:30

_**Author's notes: Disclaimer: I am like Suzanne Collins in that I'm female. The dissimilarities, however, are stunning. **_

_**Thanks to all who reviewed:**_

_**CrazyJ888, a loyal and constant reviewer, always ready with helpful suggestions. Thank you very much.**_

_**kittykatz101, very helpful with constructive criticism.**_

_**Guest, who requested Temp. I will try to fulfill that next chapter. Soorrryy. Thought I'd do it this chapter, but it turned out over nine hundred words already and this part was supposed to be a 'previous.' It might be a bit embarrassing if the intro is longer than the main part of the chapter.**_

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Gregor wasn't a nervous or shy person naturally. He'd never gotten bullied, he could beat most people in a fight, and he'd spent a year living with royalty. So he could handle himself in most situations.

But meeting the President of the United States was different. The President wasn't a kid. He didn't need to fight to overpower Gregor. And he held the fate of Regalia in his hands. All good reasons to be quite nervous, especially as Gregor wasn't sure that he hadn't broken any laws by not telling the authorities about the underland.

It didn't help that his side hurt like a horse had kicked him in it(Gregor hadn't wanted to take painkillers for fear that they might dull his mind) or that he was completely alone. And, in this state of mind, Gregor walked into the presence of the secretary of the Commander in Chief of the United States.

"The President will see you now." She said calmly, without looking up from her paperwork. Gregor had often wondered if it was a secretary's job to unnerve people. She was proving him right, acting as though he, and the two guards flanking her, didn't exist. He nodded, trying not to betray his inner turmoil, and headed into the room of doom, (otherwise known as the executive office, Capitol Building, New York. The oval office was a bit too far away for a Regalian and the President had come to New York instead.)

The President turned out to be smaller than Gregor had imagined him, gray-headed, fit, slightly balding. He was still tall, probably almost six feet standing, and he had a handsome face, but he was nowhere near as imposing as he had looked on television. He wore a formal blue suit with a red tie (the real kind, not a clip-on), and wire-framed glasses. He was also smiling, which took a lot off of Gregor's mind.

After a simple greeting, he sat down behind a huge writing desk, indicating that Gregor should do the same (in a seat in front of the desk), and shuffled some papers out of the way. Gregor could have sworn that he saw a 'Colli-' half-hidden in a manila folder.

"So." The President began. "I'll cut right to the chase. What can you tell me of the underland? Specifically the delegates who will be arriving here tomorrow."

"What do you want to know, sir? Because I'm afraid that I don't know much, myself. I was down there for one year some fifteen years ago. Not a lot of time to get acquainted with everything."

"I want to know how to get a treaty with a people who have been living under New York for nearly four centuries without being detected and I want to know if they'll consider joining us as a state." The President answered flatly.

"Well, I can give you a definite no to that second question. They have a working system, for the first time in centuries from what I've heard from Ripred, and they're not going to give it up all that easily. Regalians have a very military and independent culture and they prefer that it not be bothered or changed. Besides, we overlanders have a hard enough time accepting black humans in some places. What is a racist going to do with an eight foot tall rat who expects to be accepted into society? And bats're a pretty common phobia."

"I thought that might be a problem. But honestly, if we could get some of those rats into the military..." his voice trailed away.

"Ripred and Lapblood might be okay with that- they'd let you have volunteers anyway, but the humans won't be a lot of use above ground. Sunburn too easily. Fliers, sorry, I mean bats-"

"No, call them that, I'll have to get used to it eventually, according to reports."

"Well, fliers get along with humans quite well and always have. They might volunteer to join you. Especially if they bond with some overlanders."

"And what exactly is bonding?"

"It's a ceremony, rather like marriage, but much shorter." He frowned. "The closest comparison I can think of is a blood brother- you each swear to save each other as- as you would save yourself." His voice cracked slightly. It had been many years, but Gregor had never quite gotten over Ares' death.

The President was perceptive. "You had a bond."

"Yes."

He nodded and did not inquire further. "Do any other races bond?"

"Not really. I mean, Queen Luxa bonded with Ripred, but it was more a matter of convenience than anything else. Last time I was down there, it was very rare to see any bond but a flier and a human. I think that the bond with Ripred might have been the only exception."

"Why?"

"You've heard our nickname, the killers. We humans have a very bad history with the rest of the races. So do the gnawers and spinners, but we humans are the worst. We're the only ones to drive an entire race almost to extinction because of their lands. It was four hundred years back, but there have been more- recent transgressions. Most notably the garden of Hesperides. Do not ask about that during the treaty if it happens to come up. Just don't. It's an extremely touchy subject."

"What happened?"

"Some things are better left unsaid. It was a 'casualty' in the war of the humans and the gnawers and I'll leave it at that."

"Ah. Trail of tears?"

"As I said, it's best left alone."

"What of the other races?"

So Gregor told him of the races and cultures of Regalia, some of the history, the major land divisions. Two hours later, they were done talking and Gregor was hoarse. The President had a final question though.

"The elderly man with the prosthetic leg. Mareth. Why did he tell me to please not serve shrimp and cream sauce when I asked about what to serve tomorrow?"

"General Mareth does not want you to think that they're a bunch of savages. That illusion would be immediately dispelled if Ripred was allowed near a bowl of shrimp and cream sauce."

"He hates it?"

"He adores it. I would swear that he dreams about it at night."

The President laughed and dismissed him.

_**This was a sort-of filler chapter. In the next chapter, President meets delegates. I'm not sure how that'll turn out yet. It's kinda a complicated thing. Thanks for reading, more thanks for REVIEWING! I read all my reviews many times over and constantly check for them. It's something of an obsession. It's not healthy, of course, but it keeps me out of the asylum. Help keep me out of the fashionable jacket with the sleeves that buckle in the back. REVIEW! Pleassse?**_


	10. the treaty

Author's notes: I've been kinda busy after the past few days. Okay, very busy. Blame Great Books (Dante's Inferno, to be exact), Labs, and 4H. That is why I have not been updating recently. Apologies.

Disclaimer: I don't even really want to own it. I'd probably mess it up.

Review? Rrrrrrreeeeeeevvvvvvviiiiiiieeeeeeewwwwwww?

Special thanks to:

Kittykatz101; for helpful suggestions

CrazyJ888; my first steady reviewer

Fanman2234; who requested Gregor×Luxa

Zap; there are more battles coming, the title of the story is 'Gregor and the Invasion of the Cutters' not 'Gregor watches Diplomats and Gets Horribly Bored.' I should have no trouble with your request.

Guest; I tried to include Temp more, I really did.

There were quite a few people staring at the black limo as it drove up to the New York Capitol Building, but the real crowd was at the Capitol. They chanted and howled and screamed, waving signs about 'no giant rodents' and 'destroy the vermin.' Thankfully, it wasn't a very large crowd, maybe a hundred people. From watching the news over the past three days, Gregor had gathered that most people simply didn't know what to make of the underlanders. A large percentage thought it was a hoax, people dressing up in rat costumes or giant robots being remotely controlled.

Luxa, who still wasn't speaking to Gregor, shuddered and turned to Ripred, the underworld expert on things overland. "Is it usually like this?"

"Nah, usually it's worse. Thankfully, most humans don't actually believe what they see unless they believe it's possible for that thing to exist." He gestured at the chauffeur, who had looked thoroughly stunned upon meeting them. "Take him. He was sent to get us and he thought we were a hoax."

The driver stared resolutely ahead, ears a delicate pink.

It was worse inside the steps. Police officers were physically pushing the newsies back and under the cordon. Gregor was glad he wasn't on crowd control as he, Mareth, and Ripred hurried everyone into the building. Once safely away from the roaring crowds, he paused to count the delegates, making sure they were all there. One disgusted looking Ripred. Check. Blackclaw, rather nervous. Check. Mareth, calm and steady, check. Luxa, looking shaken, but too proud to admit it, check. Median and Meridian, skittering nervously, check. Sediment and Porphyry, wrinkling their noses and shaking their heads, check. Temp and Millisec, shaking and terrified, but there. check. Nike and Aurora, used to weird humans, but relieved to be away from there, check. Thank Heaven.

Four guards and one pretty aide? Secretary? Gregor wasn't sure what she was, led them through the building until they finally reached the executive chamber, or the red room, as it was nicknamed. The President and a bunch of ministers awaited them. Gregor recognized Secretary of State, Karla Michlova, Secretary of Defense, Jon Darryl, and General Saunders.

The room became almost, but not quite, crowded with the addition of the underlanders. The two groups looked at each other almost warily, and the silence seemed akward and stifling for a few seconds. Then Gregor remembered his role. He introduced the underlanders and then zoned out for a few minutes wondering how badly he'd done. When he came back to the world, the final introduction was finishing up, Assistant something-or-other Nicole Roberts smiled and then shuffled sightly towards the back of the group.

Gregor glanced at the other secretaries or ministers or whatever he was supposed to call them as they started to settle down and greet each other. Secretary Michlova was watching Median with curiosity. Why did girls always think mice were cute? Mareth was talking to the general, already discussing tactics for driving back the next wave of cutters. The crawlers were starting to relax, recovering from their shock. A black man in an expensive suit was talking to Nike. Gregor had thought it would take longer for the overlanders to accept the non-human underlanders, but Nike's curiosity about humans who didn't have skins so pale that they looked like wax had probably helped. She had thought that all overlanders were a sort of light brown, and had originally been fascinated by the silvery-black skin of Corporal Yaw. Many of the underlanders shared her curiosity.

The President had called them together half an hour early so that they could adjust a bit to each other before the actual treaty was thrashed out and signed. It seemed to be working, he and Lapblood's representative, Blackclaw, were having a fairly easy-going discussion about the terms of the treaty as related to gnawers. Speaking of which- Gregor looked around for Ripred. He was having a staring match with one of the President's bodyguards. Probably picturing ways to take him down and visa-versa.

He walked in between them to confront Ripred. "Hey, why isn't Lapblood here? I forgot to ask."

Ripred glared at him for interrupting, then looked smug at the question. "Six two-week old pups, overlander, are a very good reason not to come to the overland."

"Six?!"

"Graysilk, Longtail, Redfur, Blacknose, Cateye, and Twitchtip."

"Twitchtip?!"

"Your point, boy?"

"Nothing, just never pegged you as the sentimental type, Ripred." He ducked reflexively, but no tail or paw came whistling out to take off his head, so he just retreated to a safe distance and started to talk to the still very nervous Temp.

Gregor hadn't had many chances to talk to Temp in the past few days, and was surprised to learn that his accent had cleared up quite a lot. Must be the influence of the human underlanders. In any case, they had a very normal, albeit abbreviated, conversation with the key topics being 'the princess,' and how the peace accord was going on the crawlers' side, (well, overlander, very well.) Apparently the crawlers were very good at carrying heavy loads and didn't require as much space as a flier, which was quite a useful skill in a place as riddled with tunnels as the underland was. The humans paid them for their labour in fish. At this point, Fred Shiv, mayor of New York, joined in their conversation, curious about what a crawler might do for the New York workforce. He seemed unimpressed by Temp's intelligence, but amazed at an account of how much a crawler could carry.

Then it was time for dinner. The underlanders sat on one side of the long, mahogany table, the overlanders on the other. There was little conversation, not only was the food delicious, but neither side was yet entirely comfortable with the other. The President's bodyguards helped nothing, glaring at Ripred as they ate. He grinned lazily back. Luxa laughed quietly behind her hands at that. Gregor knew she was thinking about how Ripred had made enemies without saying a word. He'd probably defeated them horribly in all the mental simulations or something.

After the dinner, the politicians got down to business. Thrashing out a compromise was apparently a huge job. It had taken three hours for the documents to be worked out, so far.

Gregor had joined Ripred and the social security guards in their little game, take each other out as fast and easily as they could. It was not an exact science, and the winner was not usually clear, but it killed the boredom, somewhat.

"No. We refuse to pay taxes to another nation. We are not on your land." Luxa's voice came louder.

"Well, how about-" Karla Michlova.

"Why don't we just live like we always have and allow-" The unnamed black man by whom Nike had been fascinated.

"How about trade? That would-" a tall, very thin woman with a soprano voice.

Gregor knew Ripred heard all of it, whether he wanted to or not. The rat had better hearing than he himself did, despite the echolocation. If something the gnawers didn't like was added to the treaty, he'd go over there. But he wasn't going to devote constant attention to it.

"We crawlers that do not do. Unintelligent be, but slaves we is not." Temp, surprisingly. He must have been more affected by his long stays in Regalia than Gregor had thought.

The voices were becoming louder, slightly more heated. The SS guys started keeping a closer watch on the President, perhaps fearing Blackclaw, who was looking rather agitated.

But finally the treaty was done. In short, it was decided that Regalia and the underland was a separate nationality, but would allow its people to join the United States if they so wished. If the United States went to war, the Regalians could join its army. The trade terms were more complex, Regalia had nothing that the Americans couldn't do without, but they had a few things that they wanted, quarries in particular. Gregor didn't quite understand it, but they negotiated rocks for food. They would ally to drive back the cutters.

Finally, everyone shook hands, signed the papers, and said their goodbyes. The Regalians only encountered a few determined reporters while leaving. Ripred snarled at one and they kept their distance afterwards.

So? How did I do? Not too much Temp(Sorry, Guest) but he's a hard character to write and I've spent a lot of time on this chapter anyways. Review? I take suggestions for future scenes if they're any good?


	11. There are different types of cutters

_**Author's notes: Disclaimer: I am a nerdy sixteen year old who lives on a farm, not a professional author, I swear.**_

_** JennyBunny: I'm fixing my capitalization problems now. I'll have to correct my names too, I suppose. Thanks for the tips.**_

_** The Toast Ninja: The family is coming up soon, Gregor is twenty-seven, and Gregor and Luxa should make up next chapter. This is NOT a romance-centered fic, just to be clear. I have little patience for the stuff. However, I'm not completely opposed to the stuff, so you'll probably get your wish.**_

_**Zap: He now has his sword. But I'm not very good at fight scenes(never having been in one or very interested in movies, I've seldom watched one) Hope this one isn't too disappointing.**_

_**Theauthor: I'm afraid that five seven is pretty tall in my family, not one of my father's siblings pass five foot six, and I'm not sure what height he should be. Six foot okay? Thanks for the encouragement!**_

_**h: Sorry, Boots is polylingual and science literate. She's not allowed everything. Mary Sues are bad things. A bit harsh, I know, but, well. . .**_

_**FanMan2234: No prophecies coming or in existence, as I said in my pm.**_

_** And finally, CrazyJ888: To all of you reading this, she's(or so I assume. If you're a boy, I apologize) right. Ranger's Apprentice is an awesome series. **_

_**Thank you all so, so much for reviewing!**_

Gregor looked around at his troop surreptitiously as he took his place in line. After a week of recuperation, the cutters had attacked again. This time, in force. They were hindered by the tinyness of their invasion hole, but it was steadily widening. The last time a helicopter had flown close enough to take a look at it, it had been ten feet in diameter and growing. They had tried to bomb it, against Ripred's advice, and paid with two more feet in diameter. Nobody knew how large the hole was now, but at the rate the cutters were advancing, Gregor would bet it was huge.

Modern weapons did not work well on the ants, bullets and shrapnel tended to either bounce off or just go right through the bodies. Even when the bullets hit just right to injure them, it still took hours to kill them. And a cutter would fight as long as she was able. They did not seem to feel pain, and exhaustion did not effect them noticeably. They came all day and all night. Soldiers, Underlanders, cops, the National Guard, even a few civilians skilled in swordplay now worked in shifts to defend the Overland.

Central Park and the city for a mile around it had been evacuated. Workmen and crawlers and some of the nibblers were building barricades of landmines and pit-traps. When the soldiers came to a field marked with orange flags, they walked around it. The cutters didn't seem to care. They walked right through those fields, detonating them with their own bodies so that their sisters could swarm over them.

Now it was Gregor's turn to go to the front finally(the doctors hadn't wanted to let him go, but he'd been insistent), forming the centerpoint of the first battle line in his group. Four day veterans, the men called themselves. They were soldiers, experienced men all, men who had fought and killed for years. Not one of this group had less than eight years experience in the army. Corporal Hendreichs had twenty.

They had all been called back to fight here, in their homeland, and didn't they joke about it. They had been called from Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, places with bombs and guns and caves and sand, to fight primitive insects with brains, no, _nerve clusters_ the approximate size of golf balls. In the middle of a park.

Most were from the rural South, so the object of the majority of their jokes was their new commander, 'that ol' Yankee berserker' and the fact that New York couldn't defend itself from 'a bunch a' uppity insects.' They made the battles sound so easy, too, comparing the cutters' size to that of yappy little dogs. Sadly, Gregor thought, 'little' was an accurate description only if you considered a Labrador retriever 'little.' Gregor had never yet seen a cutter the size of a yorkie.

One thing the men didn't joke about was their weaponry. Most had grown up around rifles and handguns. A few, Gregor suspected, had hunted long before they were legally allowed. They considered swords relics, leftovers from an older age. They resented the clubs they were offered as alternatives. They did like the blackjacks though. Any professional soldier could recognize the value of a sandbag on a leather strap and they beat simple clubs by miles. Gregor was the only one of the group who used a sword.

He drew it now, in a swift move that got the attention of all the men. One of the battle lines had just withdrawn, time for the next bunch. "Time to go!"

Corporal Hendreichs raised his voice as well. "Who's ready for a walk in the park?!" The men laughed as though they hadn't heard this pun at least three times already and set off behind Gregor at a steady trot.

It was chaotic at the front, fliers and their bonds swooped overhead, carrying grenades and throwing them in the thickest bunches of cutters. Gnawers tore and bit and slashed. Nibblers fought, some with human weapons, some with teeth and claws. A few renegade spinners took down cutters along the edges of the fight. Cutters were slain by the hundreds. But they kept right on coming.

Screams echoed over the battle, screams of pain as cutters dragged down and slaughtered their enemies. Cries of outrage and horror as teammates were killed. Gregor's rage took over as he saw a nibbler being taken down by a swarm of cutters not ten feet away. He felt himself attack.

Ripred was right, the more he practiced going rager, the more control he had over it. His body still took over all the movements, but he was now able to look around and see if his allies needed help, then direct his feet in that direction. He slashed at a cutter trying to get at Private Gen, cut it in half, and sensed, rather than saw, a cutter flying for the back of his neck. He spun, sword out, lopped off the cutter's head. He stabbed down reflexively, pinning it to the ground so that its death throes would hurt no one, and drew his short sword to continue fighting.

He must have blanked out after that because when he came to, he was inside a ring of some twenty or so dead cutters, none of them so much as twitching. His troop was staring at him with some awe.

Gregor spat out some blood and dirt. "What?"

"We'll stop teasing you now, sir." Private Gen told him, eyes wide. "We now fully believe that you're a berserker."

"'Bout time." He muttered, then heard the sound of scurrying feet. He spun to see the next wave of cutters already racing towards them. "Hey, where'd I put my sword?!"

Private Kaza handed it over and Gregor faced the cutters once more. He blanked out almost immediately this time.

When Gregor woke this time, he was lying on a bed. A soft one. There was a steady beeping next to his ear. "Time to get up already?" He mumbled indistinctly, confused and thinking for a few seconds that he was still in grade school.

"It's eight P.M. so you might say that." Ripred snorted. Gregor opened his eyes to see the big rat leaning over him to leer. Not a pleasant sight. He recovered his senses quickly.

"Could you back off a bit? No offense, but you have horrible breath. Why do I hurt so badly? Did my ribs break again?"

"Your ribs are fine. But you got a massive dose of fire ant poison. Luckily, it appears to be heavily diluted in these larger specimens. Fascinating stuff. You're lucky to be alive."

Gregor looked around the small hospital room to see Luxa, Lizzy, his mother, his father, Mrs Cormaci, a nurse, and a small Asian doctor wearing a stereotypical white lab coat and thick, round glasses. All except the doctor looked exceedingly worried and upset. He looked excited and enthusiastic.

"There are poisonous cutters?!"

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_**Author's notes. Finally finished this chapter. Hallelujah! (I spelled that. Spell check gets no credit.) Reviews go right there **_↓. _**Click on that little gray button for virtual bunnies! (Not plot bunnies, I'm afraid. They're hard to procure and all mine. Still, regular bunnies are cute and should be appreciated.)**_


	12. Chapter 12

_**Disclaimer: Sue me! Sue me please! You might get thirty-six cents and a broken dog whistle!**_

_**Hello, y'ins(Yankee for ya'll), and sorry for the three week break. I lost my tablet charger. My half-finished document deleted itself twice. School's been trying to smother me. And I've been feeling lazy. Least I'm honest, right?**_

_**Anyways, thank you to all who reviewed the last chapter.**_

_**To CrazyJ888: I apologize for calling you a girl. Thanks for the constant reviews**_

_**SaI1: No bullet ants, though those might be interesting. The beeping is a heart monitor. Thank you for reviewing.**_

_**The Toast Ninja: Many thanks for the compliments on the action scene, I've never written one before. And I have short patience for romance. **_

_**KittyKatz101: I quite obviously took your suggestion. Luxa is dropping out of the story this chapter, and I'm not really sure how they get back together. Thanks for the suggestion and the review.**_

_**RandomDenominatorOwl: Boots and Lizzy and others should show up next chapter. No promises though. Thanks for the compliment. And I have never once worried about being considered crazy. Other people may. I refuse!**_

_**JennyBunny: Sorry for not updating sooner and thank you for the compliment:)**_

_**Visitor: Muchas Gratias for the compliment!(there. You've just seen all the Spanish I know.)**_

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Gregor had been confined to his bed for only twelve hours after regaining consciousness, and he was already stir-crazy. His family had left eight hours ago after promising to come back tomorrow evening. It was two o'clock in the morning. He had sixteen hours to go before they came back.

The doctor had hung around until about ten, very excited and happy to be able to study Gregor's condition. He had practically bounced around the room. The suffering patient had decided he was entirely too cheerful and pretended to be asleep after a while. Now he was wishing that he hadn't. He was bored and he couldn't sleep.

By four, Gregor had had enough. He didn't want to request pain medication (he said embarrassing things while under the influence) but he did desperately want to sleep. He turned on the television in hopes that it would lull him to sleep.

Surprise, surprise. There was *nothing* that was any good on at four in the morning. Who would have thunk? Gregor channel surfed idly and finally fell asleep half an hour later to a particularly terrible soap opera.

The doctor woke him at six the next morning with a syringe and a happy smile. He wanted to draw some blood to check toxin levels or some such thing. Gregor extended his arm and let the man do his thing.

When he had finished with the band-aid, which, in Gregor's opinion, was completely useless, but hey, whatever made him happy, he picked up the remote and flipped to CNN where there was a live showing of the Central Park battle on.

"Thought you might like to see how it's progressing out there. A nurse'll be right up with your breakfast. Do you need anything else? No? Adieu then." He turned to leave, then spun. "Hey, do you remember where I put that syringe?" Gregor pointed mutely to the small table beside his bed. Really, it was the only place in the room, besides the bed, where you could leave a needle. "Thanks!"

The doctor picked up his syringe and practically skipped out. Gregor shook his head and turned his attention to the television. Some people. . .

"-no sign of any lessening of the attack. Back to you, George."

"Thank you, Christine. There is, at this time, no cause for panic. Our American forces are holding firm so far with less than fifty total casualties, only twenty of which have been fatalities. The 'Underlanders' as they call themselves, have not been overly forthcoming in respect to their own situation," The screen with Christine on it changed to show a snarling, bleeding Ripred glowering at the camera and snarling "I'm working! Go away you little parasite!" It changed back to George. "but they do not appear to be suffering significant losses either. Reports of giant ants in the streets have been circulating lately, but these appear to be falsified. Our forces have been doing an exemplary job and there is no need to panic. The anti-rat protests, however, have been growing more and more violent-"

Gregor turned off the television. He sighed. Some people were true morons. He supposed speciesism was even easier than racism.

"Prejudice is so beautiful. Maybe I should visit- what was it again? Ah, yes. Madeline Park, Pennsylvania."

Gregor nearly jumped out of his skin. "Don't do that!"

"Do what?" Ripred asked innocently, picking at his teeth with a claw. He was leaning against the open door, his gray fur sleek and looking completely unruffled.

"Startle me like that. What are you doing here?"

"Popped in for a visit. And if you'd been paying attention, I wouldn't have startled you. Fearsome warrior." Those last two words were said in tones of deepest sarcasm.

Gregor shrugged and grinned, then froze, staring at the gnawer. "Ripred. . ."

"What?"

"This may sound odd, but weren't you ah, a darker shade of gray earlier?"

"No." Ripred went back to picking his teeth.

"Oh." Gregor rubbed his eyes, glanced at the clock. "It's a quarter 'till eight. Visiting hours aren't until nine. How did you get in around the nurses?"

Ripred ignored that question, scratching behind his ear with a forepaw.

"Fine. Whatever. How's the battle going then?"

"Pretty well, considering. We're holding our own, small thanks to you."

"Well, sorry. Considering what?"

"The flow of cutters is increasing."

"How?! Are there that many cutters?!"

"Boy, a queen can lay up to a two hundred eggs a day. Those take two months to hatch with a ninety percent hatching rate. And there's more than one queen."

"How many queens are there?"

"Do you think I've ever gone into the cutter lands to find out?" Ripred's tone was scathing. "I may be a rager, but I have a healthy respect for my own hide. And even when I wanted to die, I never had any wish to become food for larvae."

"Well, you've stuck your nose into enough odd places. . ."

"Not that one." Ripred shook himself as though trying to rid himself of an unpleasant image.

Gregor froze, sniffing. When Ripred had shaken his fur, his fluffy, light gray fur, a slight breeze had resulted. A breeze that smelled of- lilac? Well, well, well. He smirked. "Ripred. I never knew you took lilac-scented baths."

The scowl he got was completely worth it

_**And now, to get back to my calculus. . .**_

_**Review?**_


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